


Exchanging Vows

by allonsys_girl



Series: No Rules [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Blood, Blood Kink, Blood and Injury, Bloodplay, Bottom John, Cutting, Dom John Watson, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, Knifeplay, M/M, Pain Kink, Painplay, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:37:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1974432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of their wedding, John and Sherlock dabble in a bit more bloodplay than they have previously, and John's shocked by how much this ISN'T just for Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exchanging Vows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bittergreens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittergreens/gifts).



> Because her fics are amazing, and she always leaves the most brilliant and beautiful comments on mine, and I love her. 
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: There is a lot of blood play in this fic. Explicit descriptions of consensual pain and cutting for sexual and emotional release. Please heed this warning and do not read if that is a trigger for you.

John looked up at the mantle clock for what felt like the fiftieth time since he’d been home from the surgery. Sighed, trying to get back into the book he was reading, some trashy pulp crime novel rubbish that another doctor had recommended. It wouldn’t have held his interest normally, but tonight it really was a losing battle. He flipped a few more pages idly, and finally set it down on the side table.

He stretched, the healing bite mark on his shoulder pulling, new skin taut and inflexible. A slow smile spread across his face. He shivered slightly, thinking of that morning just a week previous, and also in anticipation of what he and Sherlock had agreed on for this evening. He squirmed, trying to get comfortable sitting down, which wasn’t really possible at the moment. A habitual glance at the clock again. Sherlock should have been home an hour ago.

He picked up his phone. No texts. He set it down again, stood up, now feeling antsy, and strode to the window, hoping to see Sherlock’s tall figure loping across Baker Street from the tube station. Nothing. Deserted street, the streetlamps just beginning to flicker on. He closed the curtains with a snap, ruffled his hands through his hair.

He swept his phone off the chair and walked into the bedroom. Laid out on a breakfast tray on the bedside table were two surgical scalpels, two vials with red rubber caps, several syringes, lilac coloured latex gloves, and various bandages and medical tape, all nicked from work over the course of the week. The bed was stripped of its normal high thread count sheets that Sherlock insisted upon, instead covered with plain tan sheets that used to be John’s, when they slept in separate beds. They would be making a hell of a mess of themselves and the bed in here tonight, if all went according to plan.

John held up his phone and snapped a picture of the preparations, texted it to Sherlock. _I’m waiting for you, baby, where are you?_

He watched the screen, expecting an immediate response, but there was nothing. Sherlock was likely on the tube, in a dead zone for connectivity. John was damn near crawling out of his skin waiting for this evening’s festivities to begin, but there was nothing for it. Sherlock was on a case, and John would just have to be patient.

A few weeks previous, John would have been expected to be furious with Sherlock over being late, a transgression not allowed in the dynamic they'd established. Sherlock would have been corrected, most probably with a spanking that left him hard and wanting, crying for John to let him come, and sent to their room with orders not to touch himself. John would have eventually relented, spooning him tightly and wrapping his hand loose around Sherlock’s cock the way he liked it; kissed him afterwards, with whispered apologies that Sherlock would brush off. _I like it when you don’t let me come, John. When I deserve it, anyway. You know that._

Things had recently changed, though, and John wasn’t entirely sure where the lines in this relationship were now, or if there even were any anymore. In the beginning, there’d been no formal agreements, just them being them, mostly as they’d always been, with the addition of sex and snuggling and over-the-breakfast-table forehead kisses that made Mrs Hudson giggle delightedly and clasp her hands over her mouth.

With the revelation of Sherlock's profound need for John's praise and punishment, for John to take him in hand occasionally, to allow him to take care of John, they'd established something new. Sherlock took on most of the household responsibilities, bathed John, shaved him, dressed him; usually the act of doing so enough to soothe the unsettled feeling that always plagued him. John made the rules. John ruled Sherlock. Sherlock thrived on it, submissive and compliant, and generally more content than John remembered him ever being. John petted him and praised him, rewarded him with affection and presents, and occasionally corrected him when he stepped outside of the boundaries they'd established. He was still Sherlock, after all, and rules were often an afterthought.

They hadn't formally named it until they were comfortable enough with the dynamic to categorise it as a dom/sub relationship. For the last six months, it had been fairly straightforward in that regard, a negotiation of exactly how much John was willing to dominate Sherlock in and out of the bedroom, and of what Sherlock needed from him to make him feel safe, loved. Last week however, their self-imposed rules had shifted to allow Sherlock a measure of domination and control that he had largely given up for the last half year or so, and if John was honest with himself, he was happier this way.

It was a heavy responsibility, Sherlock’s heart and happiness. Whether they were in an official and rule bound dom/sub arrangement or not. Having Sherlock completely submissive to him around the clock - with the exception of The Work, where John would never dream of taking over, and Sherlock would never allow it - was actually rather emotionally exhausting. The last week had been more like the way things were when they first got together, and John had found himself ceding control to Sherlock often. It felt as though a weight he hadn’t even known was there had been lifted and he could relax. He understood why Sherlock enjoyed being submissive. It was peaceful, to allow someone else to take charge. Sherlock had noticed, was more tender with John than he would normally have been; murmured _darling_ and _you’re beautiful_ in his ear at night before they fell asleep, pulled him down into his lap on the sofa in the evenings and stroked his hair until he was loose limbed and sleepy, then took him to bed and they made love slow and sweet, Sherlock pressing gentle kisses along John’s spine and whispering how much he loved him, that he would always take care of him.

It had been a glorious way in which to spend the week before they got married, which was now in just two days. The tuxedos were hanging in black vinyl bags on the wardrobe, their shoes lined up underneath, polished and glossy. There had been a slight hiccup with the catering, which Sherlock had been in a plain strop about for about eight hours yesterday before John smoothed it over. Now everything was set and in place, and they would be exchanging wedding vows on Saturday afternoon. If they were going to go through with this plan prior to the wedding, it needed to be tonight. It was nearly ten. Where in the bloody hell was Sherlock?

John wandered into the kitchen, and absentmindedly opened the fridge, pulled out one of the expensive micro brewed brown ales that Sherlock had surprised him with as a gift the day before, and flopped down on the sofa. He set his phone on his thigh and flipped on the telly. Some rerun of Top Gear. Perfect. Mindless and funny, something to keep his mind occupied without much effort until Sherlock got home. He sat down and wiggled, clenching his arse muscles and adjusting himself in his jeans. He’d been half hard and waiting for hours. It was beginning to become more than a little tedious.

They had just put the star in the the reasonably priced car when John heard the front door rattle open, and Sherlock’s rapid footfalls climbing the stairs. He hadn’t even had time to rise off the sofa when the door to the flat swung open and Sherlock appeared, windblown and ruddy, his curls wild, coat still flapping a little around his calves.

“Well, hello. Is this your idea of fashionably late?” John set his half drunk beer on the coffee table and cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock.

Sherlock shut the door quietly and latched it, swept his coat off his shoulders and hung it up on the singular hook John had screwed into the doorframe a few months previous. Sherlock always forgot to take his coat off downstairs, and John couldn’t bear it laying over the backs of chairs around the flat. It was a pet peeve of his, clothes in places they shouldn’t be, and Sherlock had been corrected more than once over leaving his coat over the back of John’s chair.

Sherlock enjoyed, craved even, being corrected, but John didn’t relish that particular area of their arrangement, so he looked to eliminate reasons for Sherlock to be corrected when he could. He wanted Sherlock to obey him without corporeal punishment. He wanted Sherlock to feel loved and treasured, John’s good boy, his perfect clever beautiful baby -- not afraid of him or constantly waiting for punishment. That just wasn’t how John operated. Installing the coat hook was a way John still was in control - Sherlock absolutely was not permitted to leave his coat laying all over the flat - but John avoided having to correct him about it. It had worked out well thus far.

“No, John. I apologise.” Sherlock turned around and crossed the space between them in just two long strides, sank to his knees between John's legs and laid his cheek against the inside of his thigh. Somewhat breathlessly, "You could correct me for being late...only if you think it necessary."

"No, baby. I don't." John could see Sherlock was in the mood to have his dom, to be John’s little poppet, his good boy. Alright then. He smoothed his hand over Sherlock's hair, fingers falling to his ear. He rubbed the lobe between his thumb and index finger, knowing Sherlock's earlobes were a particularly sensitive spot, and watched with satisfaction as Sherlock's eyes fell closed and he nudged his face into John's touch. "What good boy you are, my sweet one. No corrections. I'm looking forward to something much more interesting tonight. I've been going spare since I got home, waiting for you. What took so damned long?"

Sherlock rubbed against his hand and sighed. He looked exhilarated, breathing through his mouth, eyes wide and sparkling. John especially loved him like this. Alight from the inside, glimmering with an almost childlike excitement. Even after seven years of friendship and over a year of being together, that look in Sherlock's eyes still made John's stomach flutter just as it had at the first crime scene, when he knew he was hopelessly lost.

"Well. The case turned out to be much more complex than I'd anticipated when Lestrade phoned this morning.It seemed initially to be a simple domestic murder, but I realised immediately upon meeting the wife that she couldn’t have done it. It became even more intriguing when I discovered that the dead husband had a hidden drawer in his office desk…” Sherlock settled back against John’s calf, recounting every single detail of the case. Hands gesturing animatedly, talking so fast he occasionally forgot to breath.

John watched him with unrestrained affection, nodding and humming in agreement when Sherlock looked to him for a reaction, twirling a soft lock of Sherlock’s hair around his index finger. Underneath the exhilaration from a solved case was something else, a simmering nervousness, a jittery excitement, that John thought probably had something to do with the plan for tonight. He waited patiently for Sherlock to finish. John wasn’t the kind of man who rushed things.

“...and that’s how I realised he’d actually been blackmailing the Polish ambassador. After that it was easy. Lestrade and I were just finishing up, and then I couldn’t get a cab, and the tube took a while.” Sherlock looked up at him with bright eyes, his long dark lashes casting shadows on his eyelids in the flickering blue light from the telly. “You weren’t even actually listening to me, were you, John?”

“Of course I was, baby. Every word. You’re very clever.” John rubbed a thumb down the side of Sherlock’s face. “And very lovely. I always listen to you, Sherlock. Even when you’re making me mental and I want to fling myself into the Thames just so I can have _one moment_ of bloody silence, I’m still listening.”

Sherlock laughed softly, closed his eyes and opened them again, looking up at John with the beginnings of a dark heat. He turned his face into John’s leg, in the hollow of tendon inside John’s knee, and rubbed his lips over the denim. “I am sorry I kept you waiting. I should have texted. It’s not too late, John? To do what we'd planned?”

John ran the pad of his thumb over Sherlock’s lower lip, that dangerously pouty lip that worked some sort of spell on John, made him prone to forgiving nearly any transgression. He let his thumb dip slightly into Sherlock’s mouth, wetting the tip with Sherlock’s saliva. Sherlock automatically closed his lips and sucked, licking gently at John’s thumb and looking up at him with huge round eyes.

John leaned down, curled the fingers of his other hand around Sherlock’s jaw, skin still chilly from being outside, and tilted his head to the side. Putting his lips to Sherlock’s ear, he whispered, “That’s my boy, that’s lovely. No, darling, not too late. Everything’s ready for us. _Including me._ ”

Sherlock's head jerked back in surprise and he swallowed noisily, John’s fingertips pressed up against his throat. “What do you mean…”

John nipped at his earlobe, earning him one of Sherlock’s desperate little whimpers that made him nearly insane with need. “I mean, genius, that I realised by the time we got around to the fucking portion of the evening, we might not be in a head space to prepare in the normal way, so I took care of it for us.”

John sat back, pleased at the astonished look on Sherlock’s face. He wriggled his hips into the sofa, and bit into his lip through the pulse of arousal that coursed through him. "It’s been hell to try and get comfortable sitting down. Keep jamming the damned thing into my...I’ve almost come in my pants about a dozen times.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open and then settled into an stupefied grin. He ran his hands flat against John’s thighs and knelt up so their faces were inches apart. His breath smelled of coffee and cinnamon. “John Watson, you _astound_ me. I didn’t even know we owned one of those.”

“We didn’t. Do now. I went…” He nodded his head, smiling crookedly down at Sherlock, who was now passing exploring fingers over his neck and breathing hot against his throat. “...to a shop. I can’t believe you didn’t deduce it or smell it on me or something.”

“Now that you mention it, I did think you smelled rather strongly of latex on Tuesday night, but I didn’t want to insult you by mentioning it.” Eyes amused, his cheeks flushed, Sherlock looked so boyish and beautiful that John lost his train of thought entirely.

He stared into those silvery green eyes, thinking about Sherlock dashingly handsome in a tuxedo, sliding a thick silver band on John’s finger and promising to love him forever. He thought about the scars that would be healing underneath their posh tuxes as they spoke their vows in a room full of people, the evidence of their love for each other written on their skin where no one else could see. They would be bandaging one another’s wounds on their wedding night, itching at healing skin during their honeymoon. The thought that this should bother him tickled somewhere at the back of his mind, but he was too enthralled with the idea to pay his subconscious much attention.

The wedding was going to be breathtaking, of that John was certain. Sherlock had planned it all with his impeccable taste, elegance interwoven in his DNA. Honestly, though, the ceremony was redundant. Their love went so far beyond rings and promises made with mere words. Their real vows were to be made in blood, tonight. The submission of their bodies to the other, the trust of allowing the other to bleed him, hurt him, take what he wanted from the other. This was who they were, really, at their cores. They became more and more a singular entity the longer they were together, genuinely two halves of the same soul. John had never been a particularly spiritual man, Catholic guilt and habit notwithstanding,  but this bond between them was so sacred,  it made him want to kneel in a church and thank the universe, god, whatever, for giving him the one person who could have filled him up like this.

For Sherlock the scientist, the avowed atheist, he needed more than the spiritual, the intangible. Sherlock needed their bond to be consummated corporeally, in blood, a giving over of their bodies to each other in a way they’d not yet done. Chemistry. Biology. He needed to think about the mingling of their blood cells, the physical combining of their DNA. He needed to know John’s blood flowed through his veins. John, for all he’d never really thought about it before Sherlock brought it up, realised he wanted it too. Not only because Sherlock did, though that would have been reason enough, but because it was a covenant more unbreakable than any words, any rings, any prayers. They could actually never be apart after this. A part of Sherlock would always be inside him. He wanted that more than he could verbalise. He laid in bed thinking about it. About running his hand over a tattoo with Sherlock’s blood in the ink. The thought was intoxicating.  

Sherlock’s gaze travelled slowly down John’s body and focused between his thighs for a long moment before meeting John’s eyes again. He licked his lips, chest moving shallowly. His voice husky, he whispered, “I want to _see_.”

Warmth flared inside John’s belly, so powerfully it knocked the breath from his lungs. The thought of him on his knees in front of Sherlock, arse in the air, Sherlock seeing him plugged open, stretched wide for him, it made his mouth go dry. He licked his lips and tried to formulate words. “Patience, love. You’ll get a good look when it’s time. Now go in the bedroom and wait for me, yeah? I’m going to get us some water, and I’ll be right in.”  

John rose off the couch, clenching a little around the warm silicone plug. Sherlock was still kneeling on the floor. He wrapped his arms around John’s thighs as he stood up, nosed into his hip, sniffing at him, then slid a hand up and over the crease of his arse. His fingers delved in, even under the thick denim of John’s jeans, he could feel the flared base of the plug. He ran his fingers over the bump of it and he shivered against John’s leg. “Oh, god, John. How long have you had that inside you?”

“Since I came home. Around five.” John let his hand fall to Sherlock’s hair, pulled it a little. Sherlock gasped softly, and John pulled harder. “Well, first, I laid out everything we need for tonight. Then I took a shower, and let off a little built up steam, then I got myself nice and wet..." John gasped, clenched a little tighter; just telling Sherlock about it was setting his skin on fire, “And then I worked it in, and god, it’s been making me mad all fucking afternoon. I couldn’t wait for you to get here.”

“You’ve been…” Sherlock pushed at the base gently, and John whimpered, gripped Sherlock’s hair tight enough to make him pant. “Just walking round the flat like that?”

“Thought you’d like it, knowing I was preparing for you all evening, eating my dinner, and reading some god awful novel while I - _oh_ \- stretched myself for you. You like that thought?” John was far more than half hard now, and he adjusted himself in his suddenly far too tight jeans.

Sherlock looked up at him with huge wondering eyes. He stroked his palm over the swell of John’s arse, and whispered, “I do. Oh, John, I do. Will you wear it while we’re…”

Sherlock had been the originator of the plan for tonight, but he was strangely shy about vocalising the actual act. John had asked him multiple times over the week if he was absolutely sure he still wanted to go through with it, and he assured John that he was. Now John petted his hair and they locked eyes. “While we’re cutting each other? Why can’t you say it, Sherlock? You said it once, and now you’re so reticent. We don’t have to do this, love. Tell me the truth. If you’ve changed your mind it’s alright, I won’t be cross with you.”

“No. I haven’t changed my mind. I want this, very much.” Sherlock closed his eyes, nuzzled into John’s thigh, his hand still methodically stroking over the base of the plug, the fabric of John’s jeans catching it, rocking it. John’s legs were beginning to shake. “It’s just, you know I’m not so good at talking about sentiment. This is...a very sentimental act for me.”

“I know, darling.” John tried to shut down his own arousal for a moment and focus on Sherlock. He counted down from ten to one, willing himself to stop thinking about the sweet throbbing in his arse, the tingling in his belly.  “It is for me, too. I’m not acquiescing just to please you. I admit I do that plenty, but this isn’t one those times. Are you concerned about hurting me?”

“Yes, a bit.” Sherlock shifted his eyes downward, and John had a pang of regret that he hadn’t brought this up before. They should have discussed this during the week, but John was relishing his turn being submissive, and he hadn’t thought about how Sherlock’s natural tendencies to shut down deep emotion would likely surface on the cusp of such a momentous week in their life.

“You know that I...I like it a bit rough. I don’t mind pain, Sherlock. I even like it a bit. Sometimes I like it a lot. You don’t have to be worried about that.” John stroked Sherlock’s hair, Sherlock nudging up into his hand like a needy cat. “I know we haven’t really discussed the power structure tonight, but I’m feeling like you need something from me that I’ve not given you. Anything else bothering you?”

Sherlock swallowed again, blinked. Rubbed the top of his head against John’s hand. “Yes, John.”

“You’re feeling anxious, yes, pet?” John scratched his fingernails along Sherlock’s scalp. “Come now, sweetheart. Answer me.”

“Yes, I am a bit anxious, John. It’s been a good week, a lovely week, but I’m used to you being…”

“In control?” John smoothed Sherlock’s fringe back as he nodded. “And I’ve let you be in control this week and it’s gotten to be a bit much. Too much.”

Sherlock nodded again. “But...I want to do what we talked about, I do. I really do.” He paused and bit into his lip hard enough to make the flesh around his teeth go white as the blood rushed away. “I want to...cut you, and I want you cut me, and I want to get our blood tattooed into each other skin. I haven’t changed my mind about any of it.”

“But the anxiety is coming up and you need me to stop it? Need to let go a bit?"

“Yes, John. Please.”

“Okay, darling. My sweet boy. My lovely little pet. That’s it.” John watched, enraptured, as Sherlock’s body relaxed, his shoulders falling, furrowed brow easing, slipping into his subspace and allowing John to take control. Such relief in every line of his body. John would have to remember this in the future. Too many days without allowing Sherlock his subspace wasn’t good for him. “That’s it, sweetling, just let it go. What a good boy.”

Sherlock sank against John’s thigh, rubbed a hand over the bulge in his jeans, began kissing over his hip. He was making little cat-like noises and insinuating his fingers between John’s legs. A shudder of arousal rippled down John’s entire body, making his head light.  

“Sherlock.” Purposefully assuming the commanding tone that brooked no disobedience, John pushed Sherlock’s hand away and took a step toward the kitchen. He was going to come before they even began if Sherlock kept this up, and he'd already masturbated in the shower earlier to try and take the edge off. God, what Sherlock could do to him. It was criminal. “Be my good boy and go in the bedroom as I asked. I’m going to get us some water. Mind me now.”

Rising more gracefully than a gangly almost forty year old had any right to, Sherlock stood and tipped his head down, looking at John’s bare feet on the wood floor. “Yes, John.”

“Hey now. You didn’t do anything wrong, sweetpea.” Sometimes John could hardly believe the string of pet names that fell from his lips when they were in this space together. It just felt so natural and right. Sherlock would have balked any other time, rolled his eyes in exasperation. When he was subbed out, though, he drank the endearments in like air, like an element necessary for existence. “Look at me, Sherlock. You don’t need to hang your head like that. You’ve done nothing wrong, darling. Alright?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to John’s, brimming with desire and nervousness and love and a thousand other emotions that Sherlock could barely name or understand. Affection surged up viscerally in John, and he reached out, grasped Sherlock by the nape of his neck and pulled him down so their foreheads were touching. “You know what? I haven’t even kissed you yet tonight.”

Sherlock shook his head against John’s, resting his long hands on John’s hips.

“Well, give us a kiss, sweetheart.”

Sherlock tilted his chin, brushed those beautiful plump lips against John’s. John could feel his eyelashes fluttering against Sherlock’s cheekbone as their heads moved sideways so they could kiss more deeply. Sherlock’s tongue flicked lightly against the seam of John’s lips, and he parted them, meeting Sherlock’s tongue with his own. His scalp tingled as their mouths moved against each other, shivering at Sherlock's fingers roaming up his spine, gathering him close. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled himself up on his toes, their height difference even more pronounced with John in bare feet and Sherlock still in his shoes. John nosed along Sherlock’s jaw and buried his face in his neck. Sherlock hummed a contentedly, and John squeezed him even more tightly.

“God, I love you, baby.” He was shocked at the intensity of emotion in his voice, hoarse and breaking.

What they could do to each other, the force of this. It startled John sometimes, how frightening it could be to love someone with your whole soul, with every cell in your body. When he would wake in the middle of the night, watch Sherlock sleeping, and allow himself to really feel the raw, fierce love that he could never permit to overtake him when Sherlock was awake, he inevitably ended up in tears, with a vague ache in his chest that lasted all night.

He’d loved Sherlock since the day they met, but that immediate connection had grown exponentially over the years. The sacrifices they’d made for each other, the years of longing and waiting, of grief and separation, had transformed and deepened that love into something fathomless. It was the kind of love that would consume them if they let it. John could sometimes too easily imagine his life with no one but Sherlock in it, spending every second together, burning themselves up in each other like a comet hitting the atmosphere. Beautiful and dangerous.

“Alright, now that I’ve snogged you properly. Go in our room and take everything off, put those clothes in the hamper, and don’t touch any of the sterile things I’ve laid out for us. Go take a shower and wash yourself well. We don’t want anything of the crime scene or Scotland Yard left on you. I’m going to get that water, and I’ll be waiting for you when you come out of the shower.” John pressed a closed mouthed kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, and swatted his bum affectionately. “Go on then, gorgeous.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but John didn’t miss the smile that lit up his face as he walked into the loo and shut the door.

***

“Are you ready, my beautiful boy?”

“Ready, John.” Sherlock whispered breathily.

They sat cross legged, nude, facing each other on the bed. Their knees touching. John still half hard just from the constant pressure from the anal plug. Sherlock was soft, which John actually liked very much. He had a particular affection for touching Sherlock while he was soft, tugging gently at his foreskin, running his calloused fingertips over the velvety surface. He would do it in bed sometimes, reaching over Sherlock’s hip and slipping a hand into his loose pyjama bottoms, drowsily playing with him until they both fell asleep.

Tonight, as Sherlock sterilised his arms with alcohol pads, John lazily pulled on his foreskin, rolled it between his fingers. Leaned over and kissed him, nosed into soft brown curls. Sherlock had squirmed, dropped a cold alcohol swab on John’s shoulder and made him jump.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not…” Sherlock was always too apologetic when allowed to be, sorry about everything he was and all his uniqueness that made John love him so ferociously. For all the love that John lavished on him, he was still deeply insecure in so many ways.

Interrupting Sherlock with a finger to his lips, John murmured, “Shhhh. You don’t have to be. I’m not trying to get you hard. I just love every part of you. I love your cock.” John had said, pressing another loose lipped kiss there and sitting up. “You don’t have an obligation to get hard every time I touch you. You know that, baby. So, just, stop apologising.”

Now, properly sterilised, Sherlock’s arm lay across John’s bent knee, the pale inner skin facing up, his cephalic vein bright blue. John considered his arm, where was the best place to start. He clasped Sherlock’s elbow in one purple gloved hand and pressed the scalpel to Sherlock’s skin, not cutting yet, just holding it there. He felt very much the doctor in this moment, the caretaker, which was absolutely paradoxical and also made complete sense. He was caretaking. This is what Sherlock wanted - needed - to feel safe and anchored, and it was John's job to give him what he needed.

“I’m going to cut you now, love. Last chance to say no.” John put a small bit of pressure on the blade, Sherlock’s skin depressing under it.

Sherlock let out a long exhalation, shivered. He looked up from his arm and met John’s eyes. John’s cock stirred at the fire in them. Sherlock was absolutely burning for this, whether he was hard yet or not. “Yes, John. Cut me, make me bleed. I want you to.”

“You’re amazing. So amazing. I am the luckiest man in the world, Sherlock.” He breathed out his own slight anxiety, and dragged the tip of the scalpel across Sherlock’s arm with his skilled surgeon’s fingers. He felt the skin give underneath the blade, Sherlock sucked in a breath and held it. John pulled the blade away, watching as the blood beaded to the surface, slowly at first, then more quickly, beginning to run down the curves of Sherlock’s arm.

Something deliciously primal and dark stirred in John, watching the maroon stream over Sherlock’s pearly white skin. The room shifted, everything less solid than it had been a moment ago. He shivered, an emotion much deeper than simple arousal running rampant through him. He’d known he wanted this too, but he hadn’t known how damned much, until this very moment. He needed this as much as Sherlock. A fierce possessiveness wound through him, the instinct to claim and mark. Sherlock was his, body and soul.

He couldn't imagine not wanting this again, and again; cutting, bleeding, taking. His cock jumped, arse muscles clenching around the plug, which had become a constant dull fullness now, barely noticed. He leaned forward with a growl to lap Sherlock’s blood onto his tongue.

“Oh, John.” Sherlock’s voice was thin and high. John could feel him shaking.

The taste of Sherlock’s blood ignited his own. A match to a line of petrol, flames licking through his veins. He closed his entire mouth over the cut and sucked, dropping the scalpel onto the sterile plastic mat next to him. Every nerve ending was singing, screaming, heart pounding. He sucked harder, drawing Sherlock’s blood up through the wound, lapping at it with his tongue like a wild animal.  Needing more sensation, he rutted his hips against the bed, the plug pressing against his prostate, stomach muscles contracting. He nipped at Sherlock’s skin, heard himself groaning with pleasure. Oh my god, this was beautiful. Sherlock’s blood in his mouth - _iron and copper, amino acids, glucose, oxygen_ \- the elements Sherlock needed to live, flowing into John’s body. It was hypnotic, the taste, the smell, just the idea of it. He sucked harder, running the tip of his tongue along the edge of the cut, blackness filling in his vision. _More more more more..._

Sherlock keened, jerked his arm, trying to pull it out of John’s grip.

Oh fuck, he was really hurting him. He came back to himself, pulled his mouth reluctantly away from Sherlock’s now freely bleeding arm. “Jesus Christ, baby, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me, fuck. I’m so sorry, love.”

He expected Sherlock to looked pained, or frightened. Instead he looked transcendent. His face was flushed pink, his eyes dazed and unfocused, a resplendent smile on his lips. "No. It's good, John. So good. That was just...my body's autonomic response to painful stimuli. I didn't really want you to stop."

John took in the flush creeping up Sherlock's chest, his hooded eyes. Definitely aroused, then. He slid a still gloved hand up Sherlock's thigh, over his swelling cock. "Oh my god. Look at you. You’re exquisite."

Sherlock hitched his hips into John's touch, his arm still resting slack against his lap, blood pooling in the crease of his bent knee, and moaned, his eyes falling shut and mouth dropping open. He licked his lower lip as John wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked.

“John.” He croaked, licked his lips again. “More.”

“More what? Say it, Sherlock. Tell me what you want.” John stroked him, thumb rubbing into his frenulum, sliding his foreskin up and back, watching as his testicles began drawing up. “Oh god you love this. Open your eyes, you filthy boy. Open your eyes and look at me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, black and gleaming. He met John’s steady gaze and then looked at his mouth. His pupils dilated, his cheeks flushing hot. “Oh, your mouth, John.”

“You like your blood on me, baby? Your blood in my mouth, going into my bloodstream, absorbing into my cells, just like you wanted. Becoming a part of me.” Something hard lodged in John’s chest. Sherlock needed to do this to him; suddenly wanting it so badly he’s quivering, chills racing up his spine. His hand on Sherlock’s cock stuttered to a stop.

"Your turn, John?" Sherlock danced his fingers over the inside of John's wrist, and unfolded his legs so they were resting on top of John's thighs. He inched closer, arse against John's crossed calves. "May I?"

"Mmmm." John could hardly talk. He had to stay calm, to be the voice of reason, keep them from taking this too far. John, always the sturdy rock for Sherlock to rest upon. He'd let himself off of that duty this week, and it had left Sherlock confused and anxious. He couldn't do that now, he had to be the reasonable one.

It wasn't a simple task, not with all his baser instincts rising within him, threading through his nerves and his neutrons like live wires; blood lust and possession and dark desire. He was shaking trying to hold himself in check. He'd always been aware of his potential for darkness, and he channeled it. Want to hurt; heal instead, be a doctor. Want to fight; be a soldier. Want to possess Sherlock body and soul; be his dom, take care of him. It was all very purposeful and controlled. The way John wanted to be. Controlled.

That blood running over Sherlock's arm, though. He couldn’t stop wanting it, wanting to taste it, smear it in his mouth, over his face. It awakened something in him that he was afraid he couldn't control. He drew in a long breath, tried to count down from ten to calm himself. Tore the gloves off his hands, and dug into his palms with his nails to try and focus.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock's voice was sharper than subspace normal, the inflection more crisp. He was concerned enough to be emerging from the safety of his subspace.

"Yes, I'm just...I need a minute." He breathed deep and regular, trying to push out of his mind the visions of Sherlock underneath him, twisting and weeping and covered in blood. _That’s not who you are, John._

"It's alright, John." Sherlock's hand stroked over his flank, up over his stomach, grounding and soothing. "Don't be afraid of it."

John's eyes snapped open. He didn't even remember closing them. He looked at Sherlock, who was looking at back at him steadily and gently rubbing his thigh. "Be afraid of what?"

"Yourself. That part of yourself you always think you hide so well. I suspected this act might rouse some hitherto repressed fantasies or emotions in you." Sherlock lifted his bleeding arm up and licked at the blood dripping down his arm. He watched John quaking, trying to hold it all back, shove it down, be the man he thought he was supposed to be. Sherlock’s voice an octave deeper than usual, he held John in his eyes, blood smeared across his lips. "I know you, John Watson. You can't hide from me. Do you want to cut me again?"

"Oh, fuck yes." It was out of him before he could stop it, a rough low growl, his nose flaring, breathing hard.

"Go ahead. Take me. Take whatever you need from me, I want you to." Sherlock leaned in, pressed his lips to John's in a silent promise.

All the air had gone from the room. John could hear his own blood thudding in his ears, smell the blood on Sherlock's mouth, could taste it on his tongue. He wound his fingers up into Sherlock's hair and crushed their mouths together, licked and bit desperately at Sherlock's lips. He couldn't get enough of him. Sherlock whined, looped his uncut arm around John’s shoulder and dug his fingers into his skin.

“This is insane, we’re insane.” John husked out, arching his back under Sherlock’s clawing fingernails. “Oh, baby, I...I can’t...I can’t always be for you, what you need me to be."

“You’re always what I need, John.” Sherlock pulled at his lower lip, caressed it with his mouth, nudged John's nose with his own. It was an incongruously sweet gesture, and it made John's heart lurch into his throat.

“I’m supposed to take care of you.” He rested his forehead against Sherlock's, stroked his legs gently from ankle to thigh.

“And I you. It’s not a one way street. I think you may have missed that bit. You need me, too.”

“God, I do. I do so much, Sherlock.”

John dove forward, thrusting his tongue into Sherlock’s willing mouth, their teeth scraping together. John bit down on Sherlock’s tongue, the inside of his lips. Sherlock cried out softly, but didn’t pull away, instead pressed three fingernails into the bite mark he’d left on John the week before, sending pleasure pain signals spiraling through John’s nervous system. He moaned low into Sherlock’s mouth, pulled back, breathing hard.

“Oh god. This is...Can I?” He barely recognised his own voice as his fingers traced a line on Sherlock’s bloody arm, above the first cut. His chest was bursting, air seemed to be in short supply as he gasped and panted, trying to get enough oxygen to think clearly.

“I already told you. Take anything you need from me, John.” Sherlock laid his arm flat against John’s leg, the blood now coagulating, the smears on his arm brownish and dry. "I'm yours. I want you to do this to me. I asked you to, remember?"

“Baby, does it hurt?” John wasn’t sure whether he wanted Sherlock to say yes or no. All he knew was he was clinging to some vestige of control, his skin shivering with desire, and he could barely contain the need to run his tongue along the edge of that cut, feel Sherlock’s skin split open in his mouth.

“Not particularly. It’s more like...stinging.” Sherlock pushed the scalpel into John’s hand, picked up an unused alcohol swab and rubbed it over his arm, making spirals of clean skin in the blood. He opened another one, and unbent John’s arm, swept the swab up and down John’s forearm.

John’s head was buzzing so hard he could barely think. He watched as Sherlock picked up the other scalpel and pressed it against his arm. Anticipation coiled hot in his belly. He laid the blade in his hand against Sherlock’s arm, and looked up at him.

Sherlock's face was relaxed, but his eyes shone fever bright. His entire body mottled purple with arousal, blood smeared on his legs and somehow across his stomach, his cock standing hard and flushed, a bead of milky precome at the slit. John fought back the urge to lick it off, wanting to consume every part of Sherlock he possibly could.

“John. Together.” Sherlock pressed harder, but not yet breaking the skin.

“Yeah, together.”

Sherlock sank the tip of the scalpel into John’s arm. It didn’t hurt at all at first, and then as Sherlock began to pull the blade in a horizontal line, the pain welled up, sweet and burning. It immediately went hot, all the blood surging to the surface, and he trembled at how good it felt, how right. It was release like he’d never felt before.

He was floating. The room went hazy, and he let his head roll back on his neck. This must be what Sherlock felt like when John took control. Free. Blissful. There was suddenly heat and wet closed over the cut, and his arm was throbbing, a deep ache spreading through his forearm down to his wrist. He rolled his head forward and lazily opened his eyes. Sherlock’s black mop laying over John's arm, his bent back shining with perspiration, suckling the blood from John's open skin.

“Oh fuck, baby. Oh god, that feels good. It hurts. It hurts and it’s so good, don’t stop, don’t stop.” John’s other hand was still holding the blade to Sherlock’s arm. He’d been so lost in his own bliss that he’d forgotten Sherlock.

He pulled the blade in a short line, but deeper than the first cut, and the blood swelled up more quickly. He tossed the blade aside and lowered his mouth to the blooming pool of blood in the crease of Sherlock's elbow. Licking over the wound with gentle flickers at first, he experimentally dipped the top of his tongue into the opening and was rewarded with a bone deep groan from Sherlock that reverberated through his own arm.

Sherlock pulled his lips away from John's arm with a wet pop. He lapped at the wound gently, cleaning it, soothing it. A press of closed lips, and he sat up, smoothed his hand down the curve of John's spine.

"John." Sherlock purred, licking a blood tinged swath along the nape of John's neck. "Turn over."

"Oh god, yes, please. I've been waiting all night." John straightened up, barely able to breathe looking at Sherlock's sweet swollen lips, red with John's blood. "Christ, you are so beautiful like this."

He reached up wonderingly, ran his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip, wiping some of the blood away, and put his thumb in his own mouth. Sherlock drew a ragged breath, and John smiled crookedly, knowing they were in the same space together. A drop of blood dripped off his elbow, splashed onto Sherlock’s thigh. John massaged it into Sherlock’s skin with his thumb.

"I love you so much. I never loved anyone like this."

Sherlock smiled that smile that only John got to see, almost bashful, his eyes soft and dark behind fluttering lashes. "I know. I feel the same, John."

John picked up the sterile square, now bloody and rumpled, and put it on the breakfast tray on the bedside table. He stretched out on his belly next to Sherlock, catching his cut arm on the sheets as he did so. He shuddered at the electric pain of it, the sizzle of heat that pulsed through his arm and sent chills racing down his spine. It started bleeding again, and without even thinking about it, he licked at the cut, lapping noisily and unashamedly.

Sherlock's hand slid up the curve of his arse, and his weight settled over his thighs. He pushed at the back of John's knees, and John took the hint, scooping his arse up and pressing his face into the mattress. His cock swung down heavy between his legs, hard and leaking. He panted at the effort of not reaching down and giving himself a firm stroke.

"Oh John." Sherlock's fingers deftly circled round the base of the silicone, and then the warm weight of Sherlock's hands was on either side, pulling him apart, thumbs pushing at the plug and rocking it gently, tipping it into his prostate.

John moaned and pushed backward, desperate for more. The plug had become just a constant fullness, not unpleasant, but not what he wanted either. He wanted Sherlock. Sherlock's hard chest against his back, his breath moist in his ear, moving slick and hot inside him, their bloody arms twined together. He choked back a sob.

"Please Sherlock. Please. I need you so bad. Please, please..." John knew he was babbling, begging, but he couldn't be arsed to care. He was nothing but need, want, the ache for Sherlock's body against his, their blood and saliva and come mixing together, skin cells rubbing off on each other. He didn’t care about anything except _Sherlock_ and _More_ and _Now_.

Sherlock’s fingers closed around the toy and eased it out of him. John felt empty and open without it. Sherlock let out a long shivering groan, his hands rubbing circles on John’s arse and hips. John felt his weight shift on the mattress, and he raised his hips, but instead of Sherlock’s cock pushing into him, it was the sweet wet heat of his tongue. His adrenaline spiked, a rush of endorphins like a tide sweeping up and over him, and everything went white as the pressure in his cock became almost unbearable.

“Oh fuck, Sherlock, oh god.” He heard himself, as if from far away, moaning and whimpering like an animal in heat. Which is exactly what he felt like. There was nothing left in him except the instinct to rut and fuck and come, to bleed and lick and bite. Conquer, be conquered. Be taken.

Sherlock licked and sucked at him, mouthing the rim of John’s stretched hole and curling his tongue deeply into him. John pushed back, rutting against his face, the pain in his arm now a pale forgotten ache compared to the searing pleasure spreading through his every nerve ending.  

"You’re so...open. That’s... _for me_.” Sherlock whispered, pulling back with a wet kiss and a darting tongue.

“Everything’s for you, baby. Everything.” John husked out, his throat sore and dry.

Sherlock’s fingers tightened around John’s hips, and suddenly he was hauling him backwards onto his folded knees, John’s legs on either side of Sherlock’s, Sherlock’s face nuzzling between his shoulder blades, biting and kissing. John gripped Sherlock’s thighs as he lowered himself down - _finally, finally_ \- onto Sherlock’s cock. Flames licked through John’s veins as Sherlock filled him up, longer and thicker than the plug, the beautiful velvet slide of his foreskin as he rocked.

“Saliva. Just saliva. No lube.” Sherlock mouthed against his back. “It’s going to hurt a bit.”

“Good.” And it did, it hurt. It hurt gloriously, as Sherlock hitched his hips up and wrapped his arms around John’s waist, smearing blood across his stomach. It was rough and brutal and perfect, Sherlock’s teeth scraping across his back, his nails raking over his chest and stomach. John’s bollocks rested heavy in the crease of Sherlock’s pressed together thighs, his cock wet and throbbing. He had to come. He slipped his left hand down, trailed his fingers down the length of his cock, smearing precome over his palm, and then finally, gave himself a long awaited tug. The touch on his aching cock so mind bendingly good that he would have keeled forward completely except for Sherlock’s hands on his chest, the nails digging half moon welts into his skin as Sherlock’s hips rocked a bit faster.

“John.”

“Yeah?” The word more a pant than anything else.

Sherlock held his cut arm in front of John’s face. It was no longer bleeding, but Sherlock pressed it against John’s open mouth, “Suck.”

John did. He tongued into the second cut, the deeper one, tasting Sherlock’s blood freshly flowing into his mouth. He stroked himself harder, Sherlock whining against his back, clawing at his chest and thrusting into him. John’s entire body wound up like a spring, tighter and tighter, every nerve impulse coalescing into a scorching wave in his lower belly and his bollocks, until it crested and broke and he came so hard it hurt, in hot thick spurts across his belly, spilling down over his hand and onto their bent together thighs.

His head fell back away from Sherlock’s bleeding arm and Sherlock grabbed him roughly by the hair as the aftershocks coursed through him, squeezing his muscles around Sherlock’s pulsing cock. The guttural moan that escaped him seemed to spur Sherlock on, and he yanked John’s head back, thrust up again and went completely stiff, the fingers of his other hand stabbing so sharply into John’s hip he knew he’d have bruising tomorrow. The thought of which cut rather pleasantly through his post-orgasm haze, and the pain of Sherlock pulling his hair nearly out of his head.

“Sherlock…” He strangled out, struggling to even talk, his neck stretched back so far.

“Oh John, John, John…” Sherlock sobbed out, and came, pulsing wet and gorgeous into John, let go of his hair and wrapped his arms around him, hips rocking shallowly until he finally slowed. John laid his arms over Sherlock’s on his belly, let him whimper and huff against his back, until his head was so heavy with endorphins that he couldn’t stay upright anymore.

They collapsed forward, entirely wrecked. Sherlock laid on John’s back for several minutes, panting and gasping against his neck, rubbing his hands over his biceps and shoulders, until John nudged him with an elbow and he took the hint, rolled to the side. Sherlock flopped on his back, let one limp arm rest against John’s side. John couldn’t even think or speak, so blissed out from the most amazing sex he’d ever had that he felt drugged.

Sherlock curled to his side, threw a leg over both of John’s, kissed his shoulder over and over. He picked up John’s leaden arm and thunked it over his waist, shimmied closer, until their bellies were pressed together. He nosed into John’s neck, kissed his chin. John hummed, unable to respond any more enthusiastically.

“You always fall asleep.” He heard Sherlock say fondly, and he tried to open his eyes, but he couldn’t.

***

He woke up to Sherlock gently washing the cut on his arm with disinfectant soap. Sherlock looked up and saw him awake, smiled that disarming grin that made his eyes sparkle. “Hello again.”

“Hi.” His voice was hoarse. He struggled up on one elbow and grabbed the glass of water he’d set on the bedside table hours ago, sloshing some on the floor as he gulped it. “How long have I been out?”

“Only about forty five minutes.” Sherlock patted his arm dry with a gauze pad and placed a large rectangular adhesive bandage over it. “You’re absolutely _covered_ in welts and cuts.”

“You sound very pleased about that.” John smiled as he sat up. He pointed at Sherlock’s arm, which he’d obviously wiped clean, but hadn’t been dressed yet. “Okay, now you.”

Sherlock obediently stuck his arm out across John’s lap. There were tooth shaped bruises covering Sherlock’s forearm. “Jesus Christ. I think we’re both pretty covered in marks.”

“Yes.” Sherlock was practically bouncing with joy.

John shook his head affectionately and laughed, feeling more sated and peaceful than he could remember having felt possibly ever. “That was the best idea you’ve ever had, I think.”

“Mmmm. Glad you agree.”

“You knew how much _I_ needed that, would like that. You knew.” John threw the bandage wrapper in the wastepaper basket next to the bed, smoothed the adhesive over Sherlock’s skin.

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock stretched out and held his arm out in an invitation.

John laid down, covering them both with the blankets, and laid his arm across Sherlock, kissed his chest. “How do you always know things about me that I don’t even know about myself?”

“Well, I _am_ a detective, John.”

“You’re also an insufferable smart arse.”

Sherlock laughed softly, drawing circles on John's back with his fingertips. "So I have been told more than once."

John listened to the steady thump of Sherlock's heart next to his ear, the coursing of all that blood. "Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"Tonight was amazing. This week has been amazing. But I’m not sure where it leaves us, with the whole...dom/sub thing. I thought I understood how we worked, and now, I’m not so sure."

Sherlock picked up John's arm, laying across his stomach, and tapped his fingers along the edges of the bandage. He sighed, interlaced his fingers with John's, and laid their entwined hands back on his belly. "We have a very complicated dynamic, John."

"We do, yeah."

"You thought it would be simplified after we established that you were the dom and I the sub, did you not?" Sherlock resumed rubbing his fingers over John's back, the rhythm gentling and hypnotic.

"I had sort of hoped."

"It hasn't quite worked out the way you had anticipated."

"No." John felt guilty saying it, rubbed his lips over Sherlock’s chest and squeezed him close in apology.

"Because sometimes you don't want to be, or aren't capable of being, the one who holds all the emotional burden. The adult, for lack of a better term." Sherlock had his deductive voice now.

"I think I prefer decision-maker, but yeah. I'm naturally a dominant person, but...sometimes...I just get tired, love."

"I believe we're due for a renegotiation, then." Sherlock paused, and John felt his chest expand as he took a deep inhalation. "Are you still happy with me, with us?"

John pushed himself up on his elbow so he could look into Sherlock's face. His cerulean eyes searched John's indigo ones, his mouth drawn up in a tight half smile. He was nervous and trying not to be.

John reached up and traced his mouth with his index finger. "Oh my god, Sherlock. Yes. Yes, sweetheart. I have never been happier in my life, Sherlock. That's not what I'm saying. I'm not unhappy, I'm just...a bit confused. We had something established, something that was working, and then last week it changed, and I’m not sure where we stand.”

Sherlock shifted down on the bed so they were face to face. He looked the way he always did after sex, softer, younger, the lines in his face gentled, and his eyes bright and affectionate. “John. You’ve reminded me time and time again that we make our own rules about this. We aren’t bound by arbitrary ideas about dominant and submissive roles. I think we’ve discovered tonight, and in the last week, that you occasionally require me to be more dominant. You need - a break - from the mental and emotional responsibility of being in charge of me, of our relationship. We've also discovered you have more than a passing interest in pain and blood play. In me hurting you."

"Yeah, would seem so."

"I had suspected as much, considering your inclinations towards rough sex, but it is always satisfying to be correct." Sherlock grinned, wide and genuine, drew an affectionate fingertip over the swoop of John's nose. "John, listen. You've always told me that I can just ask for what I need from you. That if I need to be corrected or praised, all I need to do is tell you. Yes?"

"Of course, love." John kissed the end his finger, stared into those one of a kind eyes, which were now watching him with a sympathetic expression.

“That goes for you as well, John. Part of what I like, what makes me submissive to you, is that you come first. What you need. What you want. So if what you want is to not be dominant, if what you want is for me to take control and let you rest for a bit, I want to give that to you. Even if it's difficult for me sometimes.” Sherlock kissed him, just a sweet sleepy press of lips.

“You are a marvel.” John thought he’d never loved Sherlock so much as he did in that moment. “I want to give you whatever you want and need, too, you know.”

“I know. You do. You let me take care of you, and you take care of me. That's what I need.”

"As long as you're getting what you need, too. Everything is for you, Sherlock. I meant that. It wasn't the sex talking." John grinned, despite the seriousness of the conversation, and brushed his lips over Sherlock's.

"I know that, John."

They laid in thoughtful silence for a few moments.

“Tattoos tomorrow?” John realised they’d not drawn the blood needed to mix with that tattoo ink, the vials were still empty. They'd have to do that in the morning.

“Mmmm. Yes.” Sherlock was fading now, his breathing getting slower, humming little contented noises every few seconds and curling into John like a cat.

“Thought about what we’re getting yet?” John was allowing Sherlock to choose what design they were getting, since he honestly didn’t care, and it seemed important to Sherlock.

“Mmmm, yes. Bees. I think bees.”

"Bees. Okay. Any particular reason?"

"No. I just. I like bees." Sherlock tucked his hand under the blankets and gave John's arse a squeeze. "Right here."

"You want me to get a bee tattooed on my arse."

"Yes." 

John started laughing. He started and he couldn't stop. He didn't know if it was exhaustion or the endorphins or what, but it welled up from deep inside him and he laughed until he was crying, Sherlock staring at him bemusedly the entire time. Finally he wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. He kissed Sherlock's lips, his eyes, his chin, and then flipped over, burrowing back into Sherlock's chest and gathering his arms around him. 

"Alright, love. For you. For you, I will get a bee tattooed on my arse." 

Sherlock kissed his neck, and they both yawned. "You're remarkable, John."

"As are you, darling. As are you."

 


End file.
